Monthly Archives: April 2013

 

Well, look at that! It’s time for another SFF Saturday Snippet! What’s SFF Saturday? It’s a group of authors who post snippets of SFF prose and poetry for comment. You can check out other SFF Saturday posts, too.

I’ll be in the garden today, pulling weeds out of beds and cutting the grass and generally getting my hands covered in dirt. But before I venture out, I want to give you another snippet from a short story I wrote called Old Wounds. This is the eighth part. You can find the other parts here.

When we left Master Sorne, her mysterious guest looked insulted at her insinuation that he was there to rob her.

“I’m not here for your money. I want to speak to you.”

She pushed down her growing anger, but not before some of it slipped out. “Courtesy calls for making an appointment, sirrah. Not placing a gun to the head of my apprentice.”

Dilan turned paler, quite a feat, given the deep bronze of his complexion. The young man would faint or pass out soon, she expected.

The man’s face hardened. “I don’t have time for appointments.”

“Neither do I,” she said.

Aaaand, yes, that’s really ten sentences.

 

It’s time for another SFF Saturday Snippet! What’s SFF Saturday? It’s a group of authors who post snippets of SFF prose and poetry for comment. You can check out other SFF Saturday posts, too.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been giving you snippets from a short story I wrote called Old Wounds. This is the seventh part. You can find the other parts here.

When we left Master Sorne, her mysterious guest asked for the rest of Sorne’s blades.

Damn. Sorne added the knife from her belt and boot to the counter. “That’s all,” she said.

“His life depends on your honesty, Mistress.”

“Master,” she said. “And I’m lame, not blind.” She kept her hands where the man could see them. “How much do you want?”

He jerked his head up and had the gall to look insulted.

Well, then.

 

It’s almost tax day in the US. Guess who still hasn’t done hers? Yup. Every year, I say I’m going to do them as soon as I get all the paperwork, and every year, I do them the day before.

But today, it’s time for another SFF Saturday Snippet! What’s SFF Saturday? It’s a group of authors who post snippets of SFF prose and poetry for comment. You can check out other SFF Saturday posts, too.

For the next couple of weeks, I’ll be giving you snippets from a short story I wrote called Old Wounds. This is the sixth part. You can find the other parts here.

When we left Master Sorne, her mysterious guest was holding a gun to Sorne’s apprentice’s head.

“Don’t move,” he said.

She did not know the dark-haired man. His voice held traces of a coastal accent, his bearing sure, and the hand holding the pistol fine and steady. He had money; his fingers were not those of a laborer. She held her place—and her tongue.

“Now move to your right and place the knife on the counter.”

He also had a brain.  Careful to keep her movements slow and her hands visible, she laid the palmed blade on the table. At the end of the stranger’s pistol Dilan stood silently, but his whole body shook like a new leaf in a spring breeze.

“And any other blades you have on you, if you’d please.”

Any guess as to what Sorne’s very next thought is?

 

It’s time for another SFF Saturday Snippet! What’s SFF Saturday? It’s a group of authors who post snippets of SFF prose and poetry for comment. You can check out other SFF Saturday posts, too.

For the next couple of weeks, I’ll be giving you snippets from a short story I wrote called Old Wounds. This is the fifth part. You can find the other parts here.

When we left Master Sorne, her mysterious guest had just called her Mistress Sorne.

Her non-sword hand curled into a fist. “Master Sorne.”

Dilan spoke. “Master, he’s got one of those flint things.”

Flintlock. Damn the humans for inventing them and damn her fellow Elasi for perfecting them. It could be a pistol or a long gun—either way, her sword would be useless. She set it down and palmed a throwing knife before unbolting and opening the workshop door.

The firearm, it turned out, was a pistol and a stranger had it pressed up against the back of Dilan’s head. Her apprentice’s eyes were wide and his face ashen and he trembled as the man holding the gun backed him away from the door—away from her.